Papercut
by Monday
Summary: Because in the grand scheme of things it really is a smally thing, but they still hurt and even papercuts leave scars. One shot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

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Good Night.**

There's a gaping maw in front of him. It's looming ominously but he's not paying attention. Sparkling green eyes in the distance though they aren't that far in reality. A few feet away. Sparkling jewels that cut but he has long become a diamond and nothing cuts him anymore. Not even his wand. No more scars for his arm.

"You're not going to save me this time are you?"

There is a shake of the head and he sees that green eyes are tired and green eyes wish he would just let it end; that he hadn't let it begin. So he turns he head to the dementor who had paused while he talked. He can see the rotting skin and his stomach don't gurgle in disgust. He's seen worse things, most of which he created.

A toothless mouth that will suck him away. Ready to steal him away from himself.

He's wondering why they don't just kill him. It makes them feel better he thinks, more humane. No green light; only staring eyes. He spreads his right arm away from his body and lets the sleeve fall to show the scars.

"Good. I was tired of cutting myself." And he can't be seen any more. A wraith is covering his body and he's disappearing. And green eyes are staring over the horizon where the sun is rising and green eyes are thinking it's just another opportunity for the world to end.

**Grey Insanity.**

The fire is drowning out the laughter. He never knew it could be so loud. He always thought of fire as soft and comforting, a mode of transportation. Never crossed his mind that it could hurt and be angry. Muggles differ from wizards in that way. He learned that a few months ago. He felt the need to pass on his knowledge and now he's educating other wizards on the wrath of flames.

Though he's a death eater he can't use dark spell. He's become creative these last few years. He's lit a fire and he's cast the rope binding spell and there is so much pain around him.

And he laughs and the fire is drowning out the laughter. Skin is melting off bones. Wax dolls. Flames are licking. But no wounds are healing. And the screams are getting louder.

The other death eaters are glancing at him. They use the dark arts and madness has consumed them. He is using useful _light _spells for torture and is being delightfully surprised when they work so well. And he wonders where the lines should be drawn. He's sure he can inflict more damage with his light spells than the cruciatus.

And no alarms are ringing because of his wand, because he cast the fire to light the floo and he cast the binding to hold something against the wall. And he's laughing and there are no flames to drown them out but there's also no one to hear them.

**Black Red Silver.**

There are bars in front of him and stone walls all around the rest. It's a dungeon. And there is his warden.

"He won't save you this time. But perhaps you don't need saving. Isn't it tiring to always see his tired face above you after the battle has been won and you're still tied up? And in the shadows. Like you are now. Are you scared? Or are you happy with the familiarity?"

Lucius leaves, only for a moment. He's back in a few minutes and he's carrying food. Bread and water. He wonders if the bread is stale and the water is stagnant. But he eats it and it tastes fine. And potions are coursing through his veins and he is becoming sluggish. So he wakes up and Voldemort is over him but he never heard the sweeping robes.

He scuttles back into a corner and when Voldemort asks him to join the ranks, he's in a peaceful dreamland where all is a soft white and he says yes but he's still in the whiteness that doesn't hurt his eyes but soon will. 

He's kneeling in front of him and he is jolted as he stares around him in confusion. The white is gone and there is only black. And silver. Black robes; silver masks. And he is kneeling in front of red eyes.

Voldemort is pressing his wand into soft flesh but Voldemort has felt him stiffen and Voldemort is looking though the folds of his mind. He can't feel it but he knows what is happening.

The dark lord releases him and he contemplates running. A scared rabbit alone in the wood until the hunter finds him. Only he won't even reach the woods. So he stays kneeling and lets Voldemort push up his sleeve and run the yew wand mockingly along the scars. And he relaxes and Voldemort put his wand back onto his arm. And he doesn't hiss when a skull appears on his arm. And he doesn't hiss when it falls into the skin and hides in his blood.

Then Voldemort steps back and he stands and walks into the circle where there are no shadows.

And there are no more scars.

**Sunset.**

The roof is falling.

The roof is falling and he's underneath and his wand is not in his hand. It over there when the roof isn't falling and it's too far for him to run and the roof is still falling. But it's being blasted to pieces. And he sees green eyes looking at him. suddenly his wand is in his hand again and heals his leg where it's been broken so he can stand up and thank Harry.

He thanks Harry then looks around at the damage. The worst thing is the rubble. No corpses but he can't be sure because the building is falling apart and maybe the dead are hiding.

He lifts his sleeve and his skin is pale underneath. A whisper. A spell. A slash. And a little blood is seeping from his skin.

And green eyes are shocked and Harry is grabbing his hand and demanding what he is doing.

Bemused he shows him the rest of the scars.

"It's a reminder that I have to pay you back for saving my life." He smiles and Harry can't see the bitterness in it. "At this rate I'll have a scar for every year I was alive." He laughs but Harry is disturbed.

Harry is still holding his arm and Harry heals it until there is a new pink line in the flesh. Strangely bright against the older scars.

Harry pulls down the sleeve and hides them from sight as if that will make them disappear. He is puzzled and tries to reassure him.

"Don't worry even when I let heal on it's own it doesn't take long. It's like a papercut." But the green eyes are still skeptical. Knowing he can't change Harry's mind easily he changes the subject instead. Come on we've got to report this. And mum's expecting us at the burrow for supper. If we're late I'm blaming you and then_ I'll_ have to save _you. _

Then he laughs and runs and Harry only hears the carefree laughter and not the rancour underneath so he runs after him and the scars are forgotten.

For a little while.

But under the rubble where there are no corpses hiding, there is a man. A man with grey eyes that are peaking out of a silver mask. And behind that mask is a triumphant smile because the man heard the resentment and that man knows how to mould resentment into anger. And that man knows how to use anger to his advantage. And how to turn anger into hate. And betrayal.


End file.
